I'm right here
by thesurreal
Summary: “Sam,” Dean’s voice is like gravel beneath a turning tire, but Sam doesn’t heed it. Just keeps scrubbing his hands of blood. “Sam!” pre s4.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors note: ****All characters belong to Eric kripke. Slightly OC. Set after season three. Before season four.**

The room was white.

Linoleum squares stretched across the floor in intricate patterns and bland crosses, while the walls remained obsolete behind an ivory shower and the dim glow of a lamp overhead. It was a safe looking room. Reflected sanctity, in a sense. Maybe even peace of mind.

"O-oh god…" Hunched over the ceramic sink, a lithe man scrubbed vehemently. The water is tepid, sluicing down Sam's hands like a map to the most lucid colors the white room had ever seen before, and Sam follows the rivulets with bleary eyes as they snake down the sink, and pause to pool along the grate. He's rubbing the soap over his hands again and again, letting the water become scalding as he tries to rid himself of the red. There's just… so much of it. He wants it all to go away.

Jesus. How could he have forgotten this in the first place? The pain he caused. The suffering. Sam cursed himself, knowing he doesn't deserve to forget. _Can't._ The smack of Sam's hands, one and then the other, against the wet edge of the sink echoes in the room, and Sam can't help but frown at the emotions he can taste in his mouth. The desperate, broken noises he releases, almost willingly, as he watches more blood dribble over his irritated palms. He's bracing himself now, acknowledging the waves of nausea that threaten to toss bile into the mess; before he's once again stooping over. Scrubbing his uninjured hands.

And for a while, that's all he does.

A figure slouches in the doorway, watching as the youngest Winchester cries. Green eyes. So bright, so loving. They pierce him from behind, remaining vigilant. Only when Sam nearly collapses into the sink does the dark male move forward, a small but sturdy hand flicking out to grab his wrist.. permitting the crimson splatter over his jacket sleeve.

"Sam." Dean's voice is like gravel beneath a turning tire, but Sam doesn't heed it, just keeps scrubbing his hands with soap. "Sam."

"It'll come out. It will! H-help me get it off!" Suddenly, Sam's pleading the idea, whipping his head in the direction of his brother. Dean. God, Dean. He stares back up at him, indifferent to what his baby brother wants for the first time in a long while. A smirk cascades over those full lips, emphasizing Dean's faded expression, making it hard for Sam to focus.

"Please," and it's breathless, maybe from the pain of holding himself against the sink, maybe a little fear that he really can't take everything back. Fix their circumstances.

"It's not going to go away, Sam."

"W-why?"

Dean's head bows, drips of red flattening his hair from an unknown source, arrowing down his neck, and Sam let's his brother tighten his grip on his wrist.. Even though it hurts.

"Because I'm already dead."

Dean's words are wounded as he takes the silence that drifts between them on his shoulders, like he always does. Sam cries louder, tears streaming down his face in discarded vengeance. He reaches out to touch his brother, seeing Dean in his favorite street clothes.. The clothes he was buried in… with the necklace given to him years ago dangling in the open air, for everyone to see. Crimson tides right over the edge of it, marring the mask with Dean's blood.

"D-dean… I… oh g-god. I'm sorry. Please!"

His fingertips graze the lapel of his brother's jacket, knees giving way as he tries to affirm that what his brother said isn't true, that none of it is.. And later, he's going to find the impala and Dean sitting someplace, waiting for him, as always. Demanding pie or a burger with extra onions.

"Sammy,"

He buries his face in Dean's pants, pressing his cheek against the older as he takes in the unmistakable musk of his brother's body. Dean always smelled like gunpowder and cheap cologne, clean and sleezy. He still does. And that makes Sam cry harder.

Until, he's gone.

Buckets of blood rain down on him from where his brother once stood, coating every inch of Sam in a puddle of it's mass while he sobbed, clinging to where his brother had held his arm. He pleaded for the other to come back, please, promising he'd save him, he'd do anything, if he just… came back.

**x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x**

**"**Sam. Hey, wake up."

Nudging the boy's shoulder, the sound of a familar father-figure lingered back with a frown. Feeling him gape down at his face, Sam was keenly aware that anyone could tell he'd been crying. Screaming, too. From the way his breath came in ragged and sharp. He heard Bobby sigh then, crouching beside him as the Winchester stirred further.

''Come on, sonny. I ain't heard from ya' in five goddamn days. Open your eyes 'er somethin'!"

A groan. Bobby thought he'd mistaken it, but halfway through, Sam let out a strangled gasp. Dear god. Sam really_ was_ more messed up than anyone had guessed. Sam almost considered asking Bobby to leave so he could collect himself for a bit, but stopped as soon as he saw Bobby's face, smeared from the ache in his eyes, and completely tortured at the sight below him. Sam seemed startled to say in the least, looking up at him with a blank rendition of what he used to be. Maybe he didn't even really see Bobby standing there, maybe he did. Either way, it seemed the gray haired man planned on waiting for some sign of life before speaking.

"Your comin' with me, kid. Ellen's worried sick 'bout ya. Says it'aint right for you to be sittin' in some cracked up motel without...."

He slurred off, watching Sam's face drain of color, and his eyes narrow into slits. Crap. Bobby was suddenly worried if he actually said HIS name, he might slug him. Or do something worse. Sammy knew it was no secret Bobby was bothered that Sam still hadn't managed to get so far as admitting Dean had died three months ago, lest, do anything about it. In all honesty, it probably irritated him more than bothered. He understood he needed to get his brother back if they were going to stop Lilith. If they were going to do _anything_ about all those demons. He probably wouldn't do much otherwise. But, he didn't know how. How to do anything. All that training over the last year to prepare Sam for a life without Dean... meant nothing. Sam couldn't remember. He noted Bobby murmuing something about a secret sanctity, finally seeming to understand why the two Winchester brothers were so priceless together when Dean had been alive.. and how they balanced each other out in more ways than one. Dean was the protector. Born to keep Sammy alive, sane, and happy. Sam was the one who held all the rest. The brains, the comfort, the understanding. Both were stubborn sons of bitches.. but Bobby never would've guessed the self-loathing, self-sacraficing persona ran between them as well.

"I don't... I don't want to go."

"Sorry. Ellen's orderin' it."

He twisted away, curling into himself on the motel's bedspread. Bobby nearly growled at Sam's inability to care about anyone but himself at this time, and hastily snagged the kid by his arm and heaved him into a sitting position, much to the howling dismay of the boy. As soon as he let Sam go, he started glaring at him, clutching his forarm subconciously- it's not even where Bobby had grabbed him, he realized -before huffing, and moving to get up.

''Don't....stupid....._she_ said......"

Blinking, Sam couldn't help talking to himself, although it may have been awkward for Bobby. It had become a bit of a trademark for him since Dean, er, you know. Then again, aside from that little consistancy, everything about Sam was practically robotic. From the way he moved with brisk, cold movements to the way he sometimes spaced out when no one needed him for anything; becomming expressionless, unable to snap back to reality for hours on end. The only thing that let anyone know he really hadn't snapped was the formentioned mumbling, admitting snippets of whatever he thought no one else really needed to understand, just hear. He never told anyone most of the things he repeated were remarks Dean use to make, or little jokes that never ceased to make him laugh. Even now.

"Uh... kid?"

"I'm almost ready."

Sam was still holding his arm. And although it seemed Bobby was use to a lot of things, this wasn't going to be one of them. Sam stiffened up when Bobby approached him and tentativly brushed his hand along the spot he held, not even caring that Sam winced or tried to shy away from the contact.

"Lemme see it, boy."

"No, I just..."

"Lemme see!" Rolling back the sleeve, Sam tried to gauge the reaction. The most he could catch was when Bobby's eyes widened. Probably something along the lines of 'what the hell?' His hand spanned out over the purple-tinted bruise, watching as his fingers aligned with those on Sam's skin in automatic horror. "Sam..?"

"It's nothing." He promised. Bobby didn't look like he was buying it. But, instead of pressing, Sam expected he'd let it go. Always did. He didn't tell Bobby that he remembered most of what happened the first few days after Dean's death, how he caught on to Bobby physically restraining himself from tying Sam to a chair after he'd attempted various forms of silent suicide, of contact with the crossroad demon that was no longer there. Mainly it was because it scared the fuck out of him to remember. He'd heard Dean's screams so many times since that night, he imagined that where he could eventually learn to block it out, it was still going to end up haunting him in the end.

That thought, as small and misunderstood as it might be, caused his stomach to clench and twist. The idea of remaining this hurt over his brother's death had never been what he envisioned for their lives. Especially after the year ended. For him, there had been that small distinction between strength and misery. For him there were no shades of gray in said line, but after remembering Dean's screaming, his last breath, the distinction became harder to make. Each side smudged around the edges, layers of darkness coating it's surface. His head ached with it all and he wished that he could make it stop, step away from his body. He'd believed nothing could touch him as deeply as Jessica and Dad's death, but then exactly one year later, here he was. Mourning the loss of his brother. The brother who'd fought with his life to keep Sam alive. The same brother he believed would never leave him. Who'd always be around to smile, and point out some hot girl in public at an innapropriate time. He couldn't believe anything could make the pain he felt worse.. but seeing that look on Bobby's face did it.

He threw up.

''Shit! Sam..." He turned away from the elder, clasping a hand over his mouth as he tried to keep from collapsing onto the ground. When did he become so weak? Bobby was off getting towels the instant it hit the ground, coming back in a flash to pull Sam's hair from his face while tossing the first cream-colored cloth over the rancid puke and using the next to wipe Sam's mouth. Said brunette remained absolutely still through the entire process, his eyes clamped shut, pretending it was Dean taking care of him, not Bobby. Dean had always known exactly when Sam was going to be sick, even prepared for it on a few ocassions before Sam knew himself.

Dean always had him figured out like that, though.

"I'm... ugh. Fuck, sorry."

Bobby didn't say anything, just helped move him to sit back on the bed. Sam opened his eyes and to Bobby, it looked like he was smiling at him in thanks. Weird, right? But to Sam, he was looking beyond the real looking glass to a broken window that focused in on Dean's profile. The damage inflicted on his brother lay hidden in the flickering shadows that played across his skin. Dean was mouthing something to him, his hand reaching out to feel Sam's head. To check his temperature. Bile rose in his throat again as he recalled what Dean sounded like when he said his name, even in a whisper.

"_Sammy._"

The image faded. Sam's thoughts reeled, and his eyes watered. Dean died for him. That's why he wasn't here now. It was all his fault. He was the one who beat him down all these years and emotionally fucked him over. What was he supposed to think about that? How it wasn't worth it? There had been a moment when Sam almost couldn't help laughing because he finally thought this nightmare was over. That everything was okay. Dean was checking his temperature, cursing him for not eating enough meat, or something.

Bobby gave him a questioning glance as he removed his hand from Sam's head. "You okay, kid?"

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled having this conversation and he shook his head, trying to clear away Dean's image. "I'm fine."

Nodding thoughtfully, Bobby slipped one arm underneath Sam and drug him upwards. Sam allowed himself to be carted out the door, falling shamefully into the old sportscar Bobby drove just a few feet away. The interrior was a lot like the impala's when he looked hard enough, and that made him sink back against the door in disgust. Sam sucked in a chilled breath then, waiting as the other retreated to get his bags himself, loading them in the trunk not minutes later afore clambering in on the other side, revving the car into gear.

Sam snorted. You know, Dean use to do that. Rev the car. He loved to show off, and that was the most natural way of doing it. Everyone use to turn and look when he was behind the wheel, though most usually missed how Dean would slip one hand from the steering wheel, to rest on his thigh. The car would usually roar a second time, tearing up the road as they began bickering about some nonsense that didn't even matter at the time. Sam bit down on his lip when he remembered how Dean's fingers use to tap out a rhythm against the worn denim stretched over the muscle of his leg, disrupting the music's tempo.

"Sam?" The bile rose back up in his throat, coating his tongue with a bitter flavor, one of salt and ash. "Are you listening?"

Sam nodded, not really understanding. All he could hear was his brother's shitty music in his head, and see how his brother's lips twitched whenever he knew a particular line of the song. "We're going to get him back, Sam. One day, we really will. But you can't keep..." There was no emotion in Sam's face as the words tumbled out, filling the car with it's pregnant meaning. "But you can't keep doing this. Doesn't do him any good."

"I'm sorry," Sam's voice cracked, quiet, and broken. "Okay?"

Bobby sighed. "Just have faith, Sam. Demon's will use this weakness against you if you keep it up."

Anger rose from the pit of his stomach. "Stop, Bobby. I get it." he braced himself, clenching his fists. "I don't even care about demons anymore. They can take over the world for all I care."

Eyes focused on the racing blackness ahead of them, barely lit up in the flickering light of Bobby's headlights, the elder shook his head. "You sound just like him."

"What?" Sam was frozen. Did he just say what he thinks he said? Couldn't. Bobby wouldn't do that.

Running a shaking hand through his hair, Sam realized that something was wrong. His gaze shifted to the expression on the old man's face, analyzing the furrowed eyebrows and the subtle wheezing he made.

"Forget it, Sam. We'll talk more 'bout it when we get to Ellen."


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: All characters belong to Eric Kripke. Slightly OC.**** thanks to those who reviewed / set up author / story alerts. You guys are awesome. Oh! If anyone would like to be a beta, please contact me. I'd love to know your thoughts. : D Hate to say it, but I only JUST started watching season four. So any mistakes I make in the mean time, feel free to comment on. This probably won't follow that season very closely(considering I have my own plans), but I'll try to follow it as best I can. Sorry if it seems to skip around at points, too. I'm trying to introduce various characters and muddle things up. Jo will be up soon... and SURPRISE! She has a boyfriend! **

_"You can pretend all you want, Sammy. But sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are." _

_"Yeah? Who is that?"_

_Dean smirked, "one of us." -- _Winchester brothers. Season one, PILOT.

* * *

The drive had been boring. Well, let's be honest. It wasn't boring per say, just... quiet. The roads stretched on in an endless expanse, forcing him to remember fragments of all that Sam had experienced in the passenger seat of his brothers car; and all that he would miss in the future. It seemed like he was doomed to endure this endless spiral of grief wherever he went, regardless of whether he was stuck in some crummy matchbox car, or a random motel. Though admittedly, if Bobby would put some _damn_ music on, it might be a little easier. Give him anything but the classics, and Sam seemed sure he could breathe easy for just a few seconds. Hell, maybe he could block out the feel of that unquenchable throb in his chest.

"Oi, kid. You gonna be sick in my car? Your lookin' a bit pale again. I can pull ov-"

"No," he'd mumbled. "Bobby, don't. I- just feeling a little warm. Don't, don't." It was like, Sam didn't even know what to expect anymore. He was clutching onto the handlebar of the door, as if he was prepared to hit the end of the world any second. And Bobby... well, he was beginning to feel as if that may actually be the case, the more he was around Sam. He was too fragile, too vulnerable. Wasn't even fair really, considering all that Dean did to make sure the younger stayed alive. They were almost back to Bobby's house anyway, so if the kid tried anything funny, Ellen could be there within a couple minutes. Less than that maybe. He'd never seen Ellen drive before, so he couldn't really-

"I lost it." Sam's lips tighten and his words are soft, effectively destroying any thought Bobby had. "I... it's my fault."

"Sam?"

"I lost it," and his eyes are tearing up, looking over to the elder as if he could magically fix things.. even though he hadn't the slightest clue of what was going on. "Dean's gonna kill me."

"Is he all you think about?" He hadn't meant to say that. Shit. The words flew from Bobby's mouth before he could stop them, and Sam will never understand how far the elder would go to take them back. To bring Dean home again, so that he might've been able to change the subject before Sam could wallow in his hurt, or sprout a few choice words of his own.

"I lost it," Sam says again, a shaking hand moving to rest at his collar bone. The tall boy is slumped, head tilting downward in his shame. Bobby glances sidelong at him, thinking of what could be so guilt-worthy.. and why the hell it might bother DEAN so much.

"It's okay. We'll find it, kiddo."

"No, we won't. It's gone. I... I lost it!"

**x-x-x-x-x**

Ellen is pissed.

More than pissed, really. Because Sam hasn't said anything since they got home ten minutes ago, and Bobby won't explain what the hell was going on. She'd spent a solid_ three_ months worrying about the last Winchester, and now.. He wasn't talking. At least he'd answered the phone a couple days ago. Now she couldn't even get him to look at her. Friggin' Bobby. This was his fault. Ellen just knew it.

"Sam, sweetheart? It's good to see you again. Jo and I missed ya'."

He visibly shuddered underneath her gaze, as if collecting the memory of Jo had been horrifying. Rather, the last meeting he had was. Sam had never thought he'd get over that.. Even _if _Meg's possession hadn't been his fault, lest, how many times Dean said she'd forgiven him afterward. Ellen was treading lightly now, trying not to let her worries bubble over into overdrive as she reached out a hesitant hand: wanting to lay it on his shoulder, but afraid to try. He was teetering on the doorstep to the house, as if openly debating to come inside or not. Bobby had already stomped passed, leaving Ellen as the only source of care in his absence.

"Sam?"

He's like a wounded animal, she thinks, ready to bolt at the drop of a pin. She cursed their luck, knowing that as long as Dean was gone.. So would Sam be. You could tell that much from the look in his eyes-- a type of unfathomable emptiness, representing the darkest of woes. Ellen didn't think she'd been this upset about her own husband. Come to think of it, the last time she saw grief in such a paralyzing amount, it had been with…

"You must be tired, hun. Why don't you go lay down?"

Ellen put on the most reassuring smile she could muster, though she didn't think it would matter. Sam was already shuffling toward the stairs without really thinking about the action, stumbling once or twice over the assorted piles of books on Bobby's floor, then trucking upstairs.

Once he was out of sight, Ellen sighed. This was totally Bobby Singer's fault. And that crusty old man was rubbing on her last nerve, already. I mean, seriously. What the hell!

"You son of a bitch." She called, walking briskly toward the den, eyeing a mantle fireplace buried beneath an assortment of devils traps, and paper. One day, Ellen swore to god she'd scrub this place down. Give the hunter a heart attack, for all the trouble he caused. Her eyes leveled to the room around her, an old habit that seemed to die a bit hard lately as she sifted through the wreckage that had once been a marvelous home.

"I didn't do anything," Bobby answered, leaning back in an armchair placed dangerously close to the fireplace. His legs were stretched toward the flames, probably trying to warm up. Secretly, Ellen hoped he'd catch on fire. A couple days ago Bobby's heater had busted, but instead of letting Ellen or Jo fix it like a sensible person.. He chose to avoid the situation and run off to get Sam in that hunk of junk he called a car. Making them promise(of course), not to touch any of his shit. "Dunno what you want. I brought him home, just like you asked."

"That," she emphasized, suddenly feeling her jaw clench as she tossed a hand in the direction of the stairs, "Is _not_ getting Sam back. What's wrong with him?"

"Dunno."

Ellen stomped her foot, growing tired of this. She cared about Bobby as much as she did her own daughter; but there wasn't a chance in hell she was gonna let him get away with him avoiding her questions. She arched a delicate brow in his direction; a trademark Jo had long ago nicknamed 'the eyebrow of doom'. It was more of a joke than anything, but Bobby better be ready for the friggin' apocalypse if he keeps this up.

"You better start explainin', before I make you."

"There ain't nothin' for me to say, dammit, woman! So retract your claws." He spoke bitterly, considering Ellen as if she might have grown three heads. Maybe stupid. She didn't know. "He's just grieving."

"That's bull and you know it, Singer! What happened?"

He sighed, raising a hand to rub at his temples. Images of Dean and Sam came flooding to him, searching for any time that Dean may have expressed his undying anger toward something that Sam should NOT do. And unfortunately, aside from Ruby, nothing really came to mind.

"He lost something." He admits, looking back to the mother-figure before him. His lips are chapped and his hair is a brighter shade of gray, but only Ellen seemed to notice. "And isn't ever going to get 'im back."

**x-x-x-x-x-x**

Sam rolled over, groaning. His joints protested the movement, but he paid them no heed. If anything, he lived for the moments when he felt pain. Proved that he was still real. That _any_ of it was still real. The pillow beneath his head was frumpy and uncomfortable, but for now, Sam didn't bother to give it much thought. He was too consumed by the image plastered against his old bedroom wall; a college print of Stanford. He blinked at the pasture green lawn and academic walls comforted by fringe hedging and parlor white fences, while the memory of college in its entirety slowly began to settle in his stomach. Sam reached out to slowly span his palm across the brochure, his eyes flicking away in disgust. He remembered the first time Dean came looking for him after he left, and how he had...

_No_.

Sam shook his head, disrupting the memory. He couldn't go back to the beginning. Too many mistakes. Too many regrets. And he knew for a fact that Dean wouldn't want him to do that. So, instead, Sam silently chorused the understanding that Dean was approximatly six feet and seven centimeters under a patch of loose gravel with a makeshift coffin to kep him sane, because in the end, he knew that even if he had to give up his life for the search, Sam would find a way to have his brother dig himself up again.

He rolled over, turning his back to the wall and squeezing his eyes shut. He mapped out the layout of the old cabin his brother rested at, his fingertips idly tracing a distinct path on invisible land. 256 steps from the the back door. A twenty-nine degree turn to the right. Pass a twisted willow tree, walk 52 more feet, and stop. The old cross came to his mind, made more for a mock standard if anything. Sam hadn't put too much consideration in the cross, knowing they wouldn't need it for forever. Just for a short while. Sam imagined the trees circling Dean's grave, and the dull flowers that rested in patches. There were exactly seven yellow, four white, and two pink. Sam knew that one day, his brother was going to jest about Sam's obsessivness over how many flowers there were, complaining how he prefered hell over hearing about that. It was all he had to hold onto now, in the dark of night. All he needed. His hand clung to the pillow beneath his head, pushing pain onto the one object he could. Anything he felt, and everything he _did _feel, was nothing. Sam made sure he remembered that. It was all nothing... compared to what Dean must be going through. He swallowed thickly, feeling his tounge swell. His brother was in hell. Dean, was in hell. Still. Even the thought of this, made him shudder. His eyes, which flicked beneath closed lids, tried their hardest to blur it away. It worked for the most part, but at a terrible price. The shorter Winchester took over the center of his mind in a smog of white, drawing a memory of the last time they'd eaten together; before any of the yellow-eyed demon's work had come into affect.

_"You have _got _to be kidding me," Sam huffed, glaring daggers at his brother._

_"What?" Dean looked over, those green eyes of his alite, donning a mask of confusion. Either that.. or the utmost innocence. Dean pulled both off flawlessly. "Sammy, I always order extra onions."_

_The younger scoffed._

_"Yeah, and I have to ride with you." Sam complained. "The car's not big enough for the three of us, Dean." When the other man shrugged in nonchalance, Sam elaborated. "Me, you, and the onions."_

It hurt to think that now, he would do anything to smell his brother's onion breath, or see him fake nonchalance. Back then, it had seemed so frivilous, so childish, Sam disliked the oldest for everything.. if only so he could feel superior in some way. Sam replayed the image of his brother again and again, hoping to prevent the cross from fading into view. The words were spoken in a toneless monologue, drifting into a tone unlike his brothers and utterly foreign.. yet so familiar at the same time.

It's only then, that he sleeps.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: All characters belong to Eric Kripke. Slightly OC.**** thanks to those who reviewed / set up author / story alerts. my e-mail was full of people setting those things up! Awesome! So again, thanks! I'm still watching season four, and already, I can see a bunch of things I wanna change in my current story. So originally, I had given Dean his own little chapter. He still has it... just... now it's cut in half. x D Jo's intro will be next time, too. (I know, I know. I said that last time!) Enjoy!**

*****Special thanks to my new beta, kenny, who knows when to say no to a crazy idea.**

_"Look, Dean, the way I see it... your checkin' out in a couple months, right? So if I'm gonna make it.. gonna fight this war on my own.. I gotta change."_

_"Into what? Me?"_

_"Something like you." _--Winchester brothers. Season three.

_

* * *

_

_"Sammy."_

It's one word, with an endless meaning.

He's always known his brother had this manipulative influence on him though, ever since they were kids. Heck, any idiot with a set of eyes could see that much. But it wasn't his fault. God, no. It was all because of that damned nickname, he swears it. Whenever Dean spoke the word, everything seemed to pause. Stop on it's tilt. The air would grow palpable, like a small, audio-produced smile. The husky pitch would curl around each letter like a music note, twisting it until it was something else entirely. Something breaching the world of religion, and leaving him speechless. It was beautiful, almost. Though when anyone else said it.. Sam knew there'd always been this edge that was so _revolting,_ he could barely stand the sight of them for days afterward. They reminded him too much of the chubby faced twelve year old he use to be, and Sam didn't want to go back there. Not to the time when his eyes opened to the world around him. Really opened, he means. It was bad enough the first time around.

_"Come on, Sammy-boy. Time to rise and shine!" _

When he said it, Sam felt all his guilt and self doubt vanish. It was concerning, but familiar.

It was home.

And no one else they knew could say it like him. Not even remotely. Not his father, Bobby, or Jess. There was just a presence in the word, and none of them seemed to be built for what it took. It was all wrong, like they weren't meant to speak it. Weren't allowed. All his life, he'd tried to find a way out of that. Took his brother for granted, really, and wanted to know that when he left him behind for academics.. there'd be someone else like him. But even then, Sam remembers he'd been weary in his search. Would he be able to look at Dean the same, if he did find someone? Would his brother ever look at _him _the same? Eventually, he decided to just give up. By then, the simple phrase had taken on a new meaning whenever it beckoned him. It meant safety, protection. The perfect expression would always draw onto Dean's face when he said it, too, with teeth flashing, lips quirking. Like he just knew...

It was his.

It was an unspoken bond. Something Sam never mentioned when Dean was alive, and vice versa. Hell, to them, it probably didn't count as much as their daily drabbles of 'jerk' vs. 'bitch'. But it was there. Allowing him to feel that side of his big brother no one knew. That no one else got to see. The Dean that hated himself so much he was just _begging_ for someone to pick him up again, if only for a little while. Sam missed that word, missed it so much he thought about it all day long.. and evidentially, even in his sleep. He pondered the slight accent in Dean's tone that would make him falter, make it more memorable. Like he felt the wonder of knowing he possessed the only thing Sam had left to offer. There'd been a rasping quality that made his voice unique and gave the word a roughness, a raw trait that he admired, that none could forget.

''...Hey, hun. You hearin' me?"

Sam shifted, his eyes bleary as the image of Dean withered in sleep, faded from memory into one of something different. Someone new and not Dean.

"I finished breakfast. Come 'nd eat somethin'."

Ellen leaned through the doorway, her gaze vigilant, and her smile a bit too tight. Sam peered at her from beneath the lump of pillow, nodding silently. Anything to get away. Anything to stop thinking about-

"Well, come on then! Get a move on!"

Her hands waved him outward, forcing him to drag his feet from bed like a puppet to it's puppeteer. His shoulders grew invisible knots, and slowly, Sam began to shift awkwardly beneath the daily burden they carried. Among other things, he wished for a silent reprive from all that weight, but never recieved any. Not even an acknowledgment. He staggard around for his bag then, pulling a shirt out to cover himself as Ellen left. He began muttering things to console someone who wasn't there, almost as a reflex, but ignored the reasoning behind it. His footsteps were heavy and traitorous, prying his attention to the cold floor as he hissed at bare toes, slowly ebbing a numb chill.

Sam rubbed his hands together, moving through the old house. Unwillingly, he imagined Dean in all his incarnations; a stubborn six year old chasing after his father's figure through the hall, a gangly preteen, with more freckles than Sam could count in a day making paper airplanes from Bobby's old books, and finally, Dean as he left teenage-dom, brawny and so full of life, grease smudged and eager to please.

_It's all my fault. _

Sam leaned back and clumsily wiped away the oncoming heat rushing to his face; he could recall all the times he'd skinned his knees or hurt himself when they were very, very little. He'd always cry as if it were the worst thing in the world, and Dean'd always tell him to stop being such a baby... but it never worked. Not until Dean would wipe away his sadness, as Sam had to do for himself, now. Sam could remember Dean doing it for him more times than he wanted to admit, though Dean never cried for him to return the favor. Like so much else. But one of them had to be strong. Daddy dearest taught them that. If nothing else, he taught them that. Sam doubted any amount of strength or misery was going to change things now. Nothing was going to get better. But still, he stalked through the house, watching as the walls changed from green to amber, finally morphing into a muggy white, with patches of wallpaper hanging in random places. The heat of the kitchen hit him full on, easily enough, leading Sam to the few chairs by the table. Paper littered it's surface, but a placemat had been put upon the mess, conveniently organized with a sunny-colored cup, and a fork.

Feeling as selfish as he did the day Dean died, he scoffed at the attempt of someone being courteous. Most likely Ellen.

"Well, it took you long enough!"

Looking sidelong, Sam stared straight at the only mother-figure he'd known. Her hands were clasped around a paisly platter, which he quickly realized was dented and scratched up in a few places. _Wonder how many times that's been used for stitching someone up. _She floated toward him, that too-tight smile still on her face, and set the platter on his mat. And just when he thought she might leave again.. go find someone else to bother, she sat down, and started pointing at the ingenious blobs before him.

"That right there? It's my special pancake. Be ready for it, hun. It'll kick your ass right into gear."

She was going out of her way to make him feel welcome. He didn't like it. Nor, did he understand. Why, exactly, was she doing this? What had he done to deserve it? He'd killed his brother. She should know that. About as well as she knew the sky was blue.

"Thank you."

"Sure, sure!"

Her tone was pleasent, but fake. Sam picked up the fork, dropping his gaze to the food before him. If you could even call it that. Black smoothed over the edge of the pancakes, and a couple of bits of bacon lay beside it... way too pink. Still, he managed to cut bits off, eating as robotically as he did every day- his elbows never touching the table, his posture rigid, his expression empty. It was like he'd begun spacing out, but remaining grounded at the same time. Ellen folded her hands in front of her, intent to just stare at him. It was only after his third or so bite, that she sighed, and slouched backward, letting her legs stretch out beneath the table, nudging Sam.

"Jo's not here."

The admittance had Sam slowing for a moment, obviously confused, before he started eating again. No reply would be admitted from him. There never was. His brother may have passed the whole touchy-feely part of their relationship to him once upon a time, but now, Sam rejected it. Among other things, he'd lost the ability.

"... She's gone out for a couple hours. Something about meeting with friends."

Ellen shrugged, her hair sliding from her shoulder in a nonchalant manner. It seemed she was totally fine with talking to herself, so long as she knew that Sam was there. She'd been so worried about him lately, it didn't seem right.

"I think she's met a boy. Poor son'ofabitch."

This had Ellen pursing her lips. Sam kept his attention trained on the pancakes, his mind sifting through an arrangement of soft-hearted words. Things Dean might say, had he been presented with this moment. Like, 'no shit? You tell her she can get pregnant from kissing?' Or maybe.. 'I'll meet you in the impala, Sammy! We gotta go find her.' Not that Ellen would hear. No one ever would. Because as quickly as he thought of the words, he forgot them. Opting to cram another bit of bacon into his mouth.

"How're your pancakes?"

Silence. Sam took the brunt force of her gaze, then nodded weakly. He always did, when pressured to speak. Otherwise, the old woman might hit him over the head for being so rude. Her past with Dean should be proof enough for that. Poor guy always got slapped, or shot at, when she was around.

''.... my mouth tastes like ass.''

The air grew tense, and for a moment, Sam couldn't believe the words had escaped him. After all, hadn't he just remembered Dean getting beat?He waited then, waited for the resounding smack. His fork clattered to the plate, and his eyes dimmed.

_But it never came._

Instead, her smile grew tighter, a little more drawn out, and Sam could see she was trying to rewire what he'd said. It was only then, that he also seemed to spot how dark her eyes were, how the bags underneath them drew more wrinkles. Like she felt utterly defeated, but didn't want to admit it.

''Good to hear, hun'. Tomorow, you'll have to try some eggs.'' She was moving. Getting up from her seat, and rushing over to the sink. She had a sponge sitting on it's faucet, something Sam wrote off as a bad sign for Bobby. Cleaning supplies sat in a bucket not far from the sponge, darkening his thought. Things fell silent, and Sam ressumed eating. Ellen didn't try to talk, didn't try to make him feel a little less guilty about anything. Just picked up her sponge, and started gutting out the grime.

Stupid Bobby.  
This had to be his fault. Him and his stupid inability to clean or cook for other people.

* * *

**Three months in hell: Thirty years of torture.**

* * *

Jesus, holy mother of fucking Christ.

"Dean."

Green optics tried to focus in on the image before him, catching nothing more than a blurry figure that seemed eerily familiar, yet undistinguishable at the same time. Blood is everywhere, scabbing over in a few places from where demons had tormented him... toyed with him... or generally fucked with his head to the point of self mutilation. Pain was a common thing amongst all the blood, now that endorphins were no longer in the picture. Evidentially, when you die, so does the pain relief. Either that, or hell was the biggest bitch in the universe.

"Dean!"

A weary smile, crawled across his lips. It's not of his own doing. That voice was so full of sanctified release, he can't help reciprocating the feeling. Even if he knew he didn't deserve it. To smile. Be happy. Then again, he'd never really deserved it in the first place. Wasn't that right, John? He'd drilled that into his head so long ago... Dean was beginning to get a bit fuzzy on everything else.

"There you are."

Sam's voice fades out through the static inside Dean's head. Everything swims red and orange, the space itself lost in the haze of hell.

"S.....sa-" A pause. Dean chokes on the sound, feeling like he's about to die, even when he knows he can't. Even though he wants to. God, he wants it to end so badly. To the point he sometimes believed he'd be willing to let other souls take his place.

"...Sh, sh. You shouldn't try to talk."

It takes him a moment to realize the voice had gone cold. His _brother's _voice. Dean's flinching back from where he's been restrained, clearly surprised. He watches the illusion of Sam come strolling toward him-- smiling. And suddenly, he feels scared. Of his own family. The boy he raised. Protected with his life!

"It took a while to find you," it muses, eyes gleaming. "But I guess that's to be expected. The longest egg-hunts always end up with the best candy inside. Right? I'm just glad Alistair is in a sharing mood." Dean feels the cold brush of Sam's hand along his cheek. A mock caress. Dean admits to his stomach churning, threatening to spew whats left of his insides onto the ground. Whether this thing wanted to torture him or just play with his head the Winchester wasn't quite sure, but the thought of Sam itself reaches into him and _burns_. Deeper than any other injury he's received in the past. Words slowly begin to form against his lips, rising to an almost unbearable level as his baby brother prattles. "It's amazing, you know? Your like a secret jewel in the middle of this pit. 'The last hope' they called you. Ha! What a joke!" The thing plops down in front of him, allowing Dean the chance to look at him better. God, he looks just the same. With all things considered, I mean. And secretly? Dean relishes in that. He never wanted to imagine Sam changing. Even when he died. He'd always liked him the way he was. Mopey, and stubborn.

His hair is too long though. Was it always like that? It's the one thing that gets him. Dean gapes at the mussed look of it, frazzled with dirt like he'd just got off from a... uh... shit. What was it they did again? H.... huh... something. "Who would'a thought your death would'a did it! Everyone's celebrating. Well... most of us. Sa- I mean,_ I_ was close to breaking for such a long time. Like a ghost in my own head. Pathetic, really."

Dean lolls toward the creature, eyes moistening as he tries to understand any difference between his Sammy and this impostor. There's nothing. Nothing but a faint twinkle in Sam's eye that had never been there before. One that Dean had seen far too many times with Alistair. God, could this really be him? Somehow? The man keeps going, talking about something he doesn't really comprehend. No... it can't be. All this time, Sam acts like Dean's not tattered and broken. Not flopped in a useless heap on the floor, wishing everything would just end already. He knows it can't be Sam. But all the same.. Dean starts wishing it was.

_Sam, Sammy! God... Why doesn't he help me?_ Dean thinks. _If he's pretending to be Sam.. he should know he promised he'd... fuck. What... what did he promise again?_

"…n-not..." he grounds out finally, studying the being as it stills in a tirade of laughter, looking down at him curiously. "...s-s....my."

The corners of it's lips turn upward, finding humor in the pitiful declaration before him. It's nothing but a last broach at seeming defiant. They'd broken this Winchester a long time ago. No use for him left. Dean could be scattering ash if he wanted him to be right now. And yet.. something about that indignance humors him.

"Of course I am. I can be _anyone_ you want me to be." It's expression becomes full of malice, and Dean's throat grows tighter and tighter until he's gasping for breath. "I just thought you'd like to see your brother again. I find family reunions to be the most impressionable." he laughs, reaching out and swiping a finger along the trail of blood on Dean's chin. For a moment, the older Winchester actually thought it was right: that using his brother would make things more note-worthy, because all they've been doing is talking. But then, it sticks it's finger in Sam's mouth, moaning at the taste of his blood. Dean sweeps his attention to the creatures feet, not wanting to witness his brother in such a manner. He made a bargain to himself that if the thing admitted he wasn't really his savior, then he could also pretend nothing was going to happen.

Too bad, it did.

Dean gurgles on the sudden overflow of blood inside his lungs. It feels like he's drowning in the emotion on Sam's face when the monster grabs his cheeks and forces him to look up, with no way to make things better and no defense. Pain pierces his heart slowly. Albeit he knows better than to believe he's going to die from lack of air, or that the image of Sam's amusement will fade away. He wants to see the real demon in his place. Because slowly but surely, all memories of Sam are fading away like everything else.. and he doesn't want to remember this.... this thing in his place.

"...s...mm...un!"

He can't move, suspended in the fiery control of the creature's will. His skin burns with the oncoming threat. A half-formed thought of apology lies paralyzed on the tip of his tongue. He wants to take it back. All of it.

Can he get a do over..?


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: All characters belong to Eric Kripke. Slightly OC.** thanks to those who reviewed / set up author / story alerts. You guys are amazing! So, yeah. This chapter starts out focused on Ellen, but no worries! it'll go back to Sam-ville soon enough. **

*****Special thanks to my beta, kenny, who knows when to say no to a crazy idea AND, how to double check my math.**

_"You better take care of that car, Sammy. Or I swear, I'll haunt your ass."_

_"I don't think that's funny."_

_"Oh come on, it's a little funny." _-Winchester brothers. Season one, FAITH.

* * *

Ellen didn't stay by his side the whole time. She wasn't some worried hag; there was no way in hell she'd hover by his sulky ass for days on end. There was a battle to be fought, with or without his help.

But... she guessed, if she were going to be honest here...

_We need him._

Ellen's hand scrubbed at the living room apolstry, grunting over a mysterious stain that threatened to ruin her mood. Not that it wasn't already in a piss-pour state, but still. The friggin' thing wouldn't come out! If it had any sense of being, it would understand. After all, she'd been scrubbing at it since her daughter left. And when was that, exactly? Oh, she doesn't know. Maybe six hours or so prior. Plenty of time for her to wash out a couple little stains.. but no. To compliment this, Bobby, the self-proclaimed man-child who can't do anything himself, was missing too. So she couldn't make him help her, either. In fact, the only other person in the entire house was-

"Mom! I'm back!"

Scratch that.

Ellen dropped her rag, and stood. Hazel eyes watched with unkempt fury as the petite blond flounced into the room, beaming. Her clothes were a mess, and her hair... oh, she's not even going to try and understand why it was so different.

''Where the hell have you been, Joanna Beth?''

Jo smiled coyly, unphased by the use of her full name. She turned around then, footsteps small and precise. Ellen didn't like that one bit. Her arms folded irratly, watching as the girl stretched her hand out to the doorway.

_Strange.. what is she-_

Ellen's breath caught, gaping at the handsome figure who trailed after the measily motion from Joanna. Like a moth to a flame, the silloutte didn't let his gaze stray to anything else until he had that hand. Once reaching it, Jo turned back so they could present themselves as a whole; as a couple even; and a dangerous hunting team, if Ellen didn't know any better. To be honest, he was actually pretty hot, but not exactly your homemaker material. She raked her gaze along his panther-like limbs with a critical eye, half disgusted by the end product of her daughters dissapearence and half amused.

"Mom, this is.."

"Wait just a minute, Joanna."

Shifting to plant a hand on her hip, Ellen snaps to a motherly role as if that boy didn't matter one lick. She admits that the likeness is uncanny, but she'd never draw any attention to the actuality of those piercing green eyes. Jo's expression darkens in retaliation, no doubt a warning. Not that Ellen heeds it or anything, she just brushes it off like everything else.

"You better tell me what'cha been doin' all day, cus' I've been worried sick about you, dammit!"

"Seriously?"

Ellen pretends not to notice the way the stranger wraps his arm around her in a protective embrace, or how Jo stirs strength from the act. "Fine." She huffs. And Ellen rocks back on her heels, ready for the verbal backtalk thats sure to be coming her way any second.

"I was with Don." Jo smiles again, despite the prediction.

"...Who?"

"That's me, ma'am." He waves brightly from his spot, grinning like an idiot.

And what was Ellen's first response?

_Dumbass._

She barely supresses a growl, let alone a mock salute that involved waving the devil bird around. Yeah, her opinion of this boy had definitly gone straight to the grave.

"Ah. Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Don." Using her 'friendly' voice, Ellens rolls an arm toward the surrounding room, trying to think of ways to keep her temper in check. Counting to ten? No. She'd never been very good at math. Thinking happy thoughts? Fuck that. "Feel free to take a seat someplace, mnkay? Me and Joanna need to have a... chat."

Jo doesn't seem pleased, but it's too late. Don has obviously caught the hint, and slips away from the blonde's touch to fall into the couch. He doesn't even act shy about being in a foreign place- or under spotlight with his girlfriend's mother -just picks up a random book and starts reading. As if he's been coming here for years.

This doesn't sit too well with Ellen either.

She hooks arms with Jo, walking slowly into the next room. By then, Don is so engrossed with whatever he's reading that she doubts he noticed her second look; contemplating whether this boy is a gift from god, or if she should dose him in some holy water.

Cus' lord have mercy, he looked like _him._

"Mom... what's wrong?"

Blinking down at her daughter, Ellen hesitates. She tries to conjure the right words to say, knowing that how she voices this is key. Jo had never been very receptive to what her mother disapproved of, so after catching how this boy was obviously going to be a huge problem, she wanted to be extra careful.

"Why'd you bring him here?"

She sighs, leaning back against the dinning table.

"I..., wanted you to meet him. Is that wrong?" Jo fingers her skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles.

"Yes, it was _horribly_ wrong." They both grew quiet for some moments, trying to understand what to say. No doubt for the screaming match that'll enproach soon. Jo lets her anger bubble for a moment, furrowing her eyebrows to a dangerous point.

"You should have brought him over for supper, Joanna."


End file.
